Thereupon the bridge stood I,
above the crowd’s tumultuous storm,
in offering, what hope had I
against their hapless raging form
that crashed in waves upon the piers
once placed by honest men,
now torn from ragged indolence
of hatred’s depth again.
In lacking faith and understanding,
lost from knowledge kept,
they clamored high in selfishness
not owning all the tears we wept.

So to hope and value pressed,
my hands across their sky,
I tried imparting all my strength
in knowledge, that they too might try
to come to understand the pain
and sacrifice of the few
that stacked, for them, their soapbox pulpits
high to get a better view,
born on shoulders of the past
and those who gave it all
in hope to birth this great tomorrow,
where none would here the tyrant’s call.

But hope misplaced to ignorance
distorts across the sands of time,
degrades to soulless decadence
when all they know is “mine”.

Standing high above the mass,
arms spread wide with calming tone,
plead did I of petulance
to find compassion, here alone.
As the roaring din grew faint
to hear my crying plead,
I saw the flash, heard the crack
from which all hope did fast recede.
Mid-breath in phrase “this hope is mine”,
the thud collapsed my chest,
exploding truth without a breath,
the bullet never came to rest
but caught my soul, eternal,
and cast me heaven-high,
as upon my fallen body gazed,
I watched my mortal image die.

I stood upon that bridge in hope.
I laid my soul to bear.
I gave my heart to save them,
receiving just their leaden stare.
No matter recollection,
their numbers grow the great divide
that separates few honest men
upon the bridge where once I died.